


finger stripes

by batwngs



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Other, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2020-04-05 06:13:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19042786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batwngs/pseuds/batwngs
Summary: a collection of short pieces featuring dick grayson





	1. eau de parfum

**Author's Note:**

> these short pieces were requested on my tumblr
> 
> if you would like, feel free to request one as well! [prompt list](https://batwngs.tumblr.com/tagged/prompts)

Dick sat on the couch aimlessly flipping through channels. He had the day off and wanted to spend every minute of the day with your irresistible smile; however, you were called into work. Dick desperately tried to fill the hours with daytime dramas and reruns. How he wished for your presence, you alone would fill the room with laughter and bring the dull walls to life. The apartment wasn’t the same without you, he wasn’t the same without you.

After sitting on the couch for hours, years, minutes, Dick found that he could no longer stare blankly at the television screen. He looked around the living room and all the adornments riddled about. Everything sang with memories of you. His eyes landed on a pink sweater resting on the dining room chair where you tossed it the previous night. You had taken it off the light pink fabric to help Dick cook dinner, leaving it to rest on the chair throughout the night. It too missed your touch. He moved from his seat to retrieve the soft material and pulled the sweater over his head.

The sweater was fragrant with memories of you, scents of freshly picked, authentic roses and wild spring honey hitting his senses. The scent of you and the thought of you echoed in his mind. It reminded him of the roses he saw at the florist one day, sitting on display glossed with honey. It reminded him of you with your messy braids and flower bouquet in hand as the morning poured its light into your day. It reminded him of that very bouquet you left sitting in the vase for days with no water. It reminded him of the rose red lipstick you wore to a gala that night where you both danced and danced and danced. It reminded him of you; your smile, your laugh, your touch, your tears, your frustration, your thoughts—all unapologetically and undeniably you. And how gravely he missed you as he sat at the apartment without you. 

He then heard someone fumble with the door in a manner that could only be done by you. Had he really been sitting on the couch for hours, until the sun lay low in the sky? He heard your footsteps enter the home, his eyes immediately drawn to you as you opened the door.

“Honey, I’m home,” you announced in a sing-song way, your voice ringing sweetly in Dick’s ears.

“Honey, I know,” Dick repeated back as he lovingly admired you from his place as you discarded your keys.

Walking over towards the couch, you questioned, “Is that my sweater?”

“It might be,” Dick responded. “And what of it?”

“Nothing. You look very pretty in it.”

Dick couldn’t help but smile. “I missed you.”

A smile, the one Dick has come to know and love, delicately graced your features, extending to your eyes. You moved from your place on the couch to sit closer to him, resting your head against his shoulder. The familiar scent of roses, honey, and home reached his nose once again. With a soft and calming sigh, you softly said, “I missed you too, bird boy.”

Home was never just four walls, it was your beautiful eyes and heartbeat doused in honeyed roses. This moment—with your head on his shoulder and his arms around you, hearts gracefully intertwined—was home.


	2. winter coat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by julykings' december prompt list

The city is fast asleep as dawn approaches. For the most part, everyone is in bed, coddled by mountainous piles of blankets and pillows and turning their numerous alarms to snooze, begging the day to wait just five more minutes. This time of morning feels still with barely any movement or sound, like honey slowly crawling down the bottle. There wasn’t the usual sounds of the city: no cars honking at one another, no loud conversations carried by scurrying crowds that fill the air, no people rushing in and out of buildings. The only sound came from the hum of the street lamps. 

It was dark, the sun distant from the city’s skyline with the night’s silence making a home in the cool, frigid air. And while the city sleeps, he stays awake. It’s the only time, he feels, that no one expects anything out of him. The barren, dark trees that line the street don’t want anything from him, the snow dyed an orangish color by the lamp posts stay piled around the streets and sidewalks, listening to him. He can just exist in the silence of the dark, cold morning, and simply be Dick Grayson under the lamp posts and snow-covered streets. You were the one who showed him the beauty in silence: that it’s not something that needs to be filled constantly, that it can just be. The silence of the morning calms him a bit—but of course, pales in comparison to the waves of calm your presence alone can bring. 

Dick doesn’t know why he’s sitting at the steps of your building though. He doesn’t know why he’s sitting out in the cold, counting the number of windows the building across the street has as if the right answer unlocks some sort of miracle. He doesn’t know why or what he’s waiting for. He just found himself in front of your steps, looking for dawn. He knows should have crashed through his apartment window an hour ago, catching up on the sleep he desperately needed. But he hasn’t seen you in what may be days or weeks—he’s not sure how long it’s been; time spent without you blends into nothingness with him counting down the minutes until he can see you again. Even though you make his heart beat rapidly against his chest, make his blood burn with an overwhelming sense of trepidation, and make him forget every thought or word he wanted to voice to you, he still craves your smile, your laugh, your words, your presence. Even though he tries to distance himself, he still comes right back to you, even if he can’t find it in himself to tell you why. 

The heavy wooden door with glass fixtures creaks open behind him, footsteps echoing on the frozen paved steps ring into the quiet of the streets and into his ears. An angelic voice reaches out: “Dick?” 

He turns around to see who called his name, knowing it could only be you. Even with the dimly lit, orange-colored street lights, you looked as radiant as ever. Seeing you awakened an ensemble of wings from within; the warmth that you bring him could melt the snow and bloom spring flowers. Your curls lay tossed atop your head with the early morning weariness riddled on your face too. Your sweater was loosely tucked, the beige scarf haphazardly wrapped around your neck, and the long, navy-colored coat, its material familiar to him, looked to be thrown on in a hurry. “Is that my coat?” he questions. 

“Good mornin’ to you too,” you respond, grinning ever-so-slightly. How he missed your voice. You saunter down the steps and take a seat beside him, ignoring the cold that pricks at you. You look at him, your head slanted in and eyes colored with concentration as if you’re studying his face: memorizing the way he looks under the snowy street lamp at the steps of your apartment, deciphering his motives for sitting out in the cold before dawn, reading the guilt he has for being away from you and anxiety he feels about pouring out his heart to you so subtly and purposefully hidden in between his features. It was a gentle look that left him wondering what you were thinking, what you were seeing. 

Dick, with confusion and bashfulness clinging to his voice, chuckles, “What?”

You gently pull the black glove that fastened to your skin off your hand and reach for Dick’s face. Your fingers felt warm as your hand caressed his frozen face. It felt like the sun breaking through the horizon, a warm light melting away his pain and hurt and fears with just the touch of your hand on his skin. “You look tired,” you softly say in a voice so gentle that it was consumed and lost to the cold of the morning.

His gloved hand reaches up towards yours, holding your hand to his skin, unwilling to let go. He wanted to close his eyes and lean into your touch, let himself be carried away, somewhere dream-like, by your warmth and care that he missed so dearly. He wanted to forget all his woes and aches, let them manifest and dissolve into nothing like his breath, like your breath. He wanted to just live in this moment forever, with your hand caressing his face, his hand on yours, the cold not as cold anymore. 

“I am tired,” he finally responded with fatigue punctuating his words. 

You reach into the pocket of your coat, pulling out the keys to your apartment, the shiny metal dangling against the other keys and keychains. “Go upstairs and get some sleep.” 

“I wish it was that simple,” he starts, his voice breaking in the slightest of ways. He already misses your touch. “But I can’t. He wants to desperately confess his love to you, place his heart fully in your hands. He wants to be with you, to be near you, to see your smile and know everything will be okay. Everyday it gets harder and harder; but he knows he can’t tell you, he can’t damn you with his life and pain. He loves you too much for that. He hesitates before he continues, thinking of the right words to tell you. “I have some paperwork I need to finish.”

He knows you don’t believe him. He can see it in your eyes. You know him too well.

“I know,” you sigh.

Dick can feel your stare lingering on him. He doesn’t have the heart to look at you; he feels he might let his heart bleed into yours, that all of what he wants to say will spill out in the cold morning air. But you make him feel weak and vulnerable. You make him want to fall into your arms on this empty street, and cry until his eyes are red and it’s hard to see, until the piles of snow melt away, everything the world expects of him going with it. And he knows you would hold him and let him cry, let him sleep, let him rest. 

Snow begins to trickle from the indigo heavens and gently fall towards the earth. The fresh snow added a level of silence to the morning, burying the night into yesterday. The delicate flakes cover the lamp posts and cars and barren trees that lined the street like powdered sugar on a decadent desert; it was all heavy and buried deep under the soft ice.

Knowing you’re sitting right beside him and seeing your breath escape into the frigid morning made his heart ache less. You scoot closer to him and rest your head on his shoulder, a movement so natural like clouds forming in the sky, like rain returning to the sea. You reach for his hands, intermingling yours with his and making it home. The warmth of your hands in his felt like holding the sun’s light; he hopes to never let it go. He gently squeezes your hand as you begin to rub small circles against the material of his glove.

“I’ve missed you,” Dick mumbles.

“I’m always a phone call away, y’know.”

He moves his head to rest on top of yours. “I know.” 

Dick wants to close his eyes, to himself be lost in the moment. He doesn’t want the sun to rise and for the world to wake up and for you to leave. He doesn’t want to forget this moment, or to let it end; this feeling of warmth, your warmth, against the unforgiving cold of the world, it’s too precious to let go. Being here with you, gentle touches rapidly stirring his silent heart, feels like a blessing. One he may not deserve. But until the sun breaks through the horizon, he can allow himself to live in peace as your hand carves sacred words and kisses onto his hand, his heart. For now, he thinks, this is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> this story and others can be found on my tumblr: batwngs
> 
> if there are any formatting errors please let me know! comments and constructive criticism is greatly appreciated!


End file.
